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Remains of last season.
Reminders of what could be.
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And where I shall remain.
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nature
Revealing.
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Another big moon comes
and goes as
the season of life
and death that is
spring unfolds
somewhere, maybe
here, maybe
tomorrow today
as the cat lays in
the grass planted
last fall inside
the kitchen window
and waits.
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And I wait impatiently for the horses to begin shedding their shaggy coats just so I can have reason to spend more time with them as they bustle about on dry dirt and vie for the attention of my curry comb and close breath.
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A mourning dove shows up early, lured by warmer air only to find no more than small patches of open ground, not ideal for a ground feeder, and the seeds I throw out daily are of no interest.
Down at one of the few open places where the Rio Grande runs clear and black like licorice beneath her otherwise still white ribbon, a pair of Mallards swims from one end of the open place to another and fly off as the dog and I cross river, me on snow shoes, he on broad feet with long fur between his pads that have only rarely touched bare earth in so many months.
Spring approaches the high country like a chrysalis revealing.
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After weeks of crunching more numbers that I have since… ever… and straining my eyes where by my reading glasses no longer seem strong enough, I’m done playing architect, done with our house plans. We await the opening of white pasture and the cutting into ground, and in how long, too long, not soon enough, we will be in there living, breathing, walking around,, parking muddy boots by the door, sitting at the kitchen table with burning candles and full plates, watering house plants, baking bread, making love, kicking back in my claw foot tub and writing while the sun comes up in my nook.
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So much for the simplicity of a little log cabin. These drawings, ten pages from the bottom of the concrete footer to the top of my writing nook, seem so complex. Does it help or hinder to have plans drawn up by those who have built, not just those who have planned it on paper? I do not know, but I’m ready to put down my pencil and pick up my draw knife. I’m ready to build, to break ground and pour cement and peel and stack logs and with tired muscles and sore hands sit back at the Little Cabin and watch the new one come to life.
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In darkness.
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Rotten snow and dirt on the road below the ranch. The forecast says it’s far from over. The white expanse of pasture before me confirms. Looks like winter, feels like spring. Chicks in a box by the wood stove in our cabin making spring sounds, and the first robin on the open hill above the Rio.
Single digits when I wake and watch the passing of a magenta sky. A pink face on an otherwise white mountain peak outside my cabin window. Chances are it will be fifty degrees warmer by mid afternoon.
The boys are still sleeping – so much for new time. Give them another day or two to adjust. Can’t get much done in the dark anyway. Time carries little meaning here.
With fat parka and heavy boots I head out to feed the horses. They count on my coming to feed by light in the sky. I see them lined up along the fence, ready. Calmer now in the end of winter warming air. They lie in the deep wet snow mid day and sleep with the soothing of the sun. They are ready for solid ground and shedding. They’re ready for attention and a good trim. They’re ready to work, as I am ready to ride, and still we both must wait.
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I remember the frogs in March under the willow tree on Barn Hill where it only barely froze and very rarely could Forrest sled down fresh snow in the early mornings before the NorCal mildness would melt it off by noon. I could hear them at night when I stepped out to smoke. Living now at ten thousand feet (and I’d like to say wisdom comes with age, but there are enough young readers out there who will be quick to tell me otherwise) I haven’t smoked in years. (Yes, that’s a good sign when you no longer know how many years without thinking long and hard.) Now I make an effort to go out with the dog every night, crunch over the snow up the little hill behind the cabin and stand at the edge of the trees while the dog waits for me, watches over while I do what appears to be nothing at all. I look up at the stars and listen. So deep, still and silent here.
A land as infinite as the stars, it seems at night.
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In darkness.
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And as quickly as
it came
it left
and I am left
to wonder, why.
In my dreams I am
underwater trying
to breathe
waking wide eyed
short of breath
and gasping and
then just like that
it is gone.
And I dance under the starry night skies once again.
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Among the crying trees.
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I remember the day it burned. I remember the giant plume and we were up here, out of touch with the rest of the world I have never been able to be much of a part of anyway, and together in our awkward silence we watched and worried and wondered what was burning, something big and angry and then we saw the news.
I remember walking up the Box one fall during hunting season with my son when he was still close to my height, maybe even just a little smaller. We had left the old Blazer by the summer homes at River Hill and Bob dropped us at the bottom of the Box and Forrest and I kept to that trail all the way back up, high on the hot hillside above the river, following the one-horned big horn sheep we nick-named Tighty Whitey.
I did not cry going through there yesterday. I did not think. I did not judge. I did not contemplate how I “felt.” I simply observed. I took over five hundred photos. I was with my boys and they made me laugh as they skated down the river on their knees.
It was a good way to see it, starting a little bit distant from the center of the frozen Rio Grande, the hillsides softened still by snow, the air warm and river singing loudly below us as she broke open to her black abyss at times and left you wondering so many others. By afternoon the new days water ran over the old winters ice and the dog learned to trust it would still hold him up.
On one side of us where the fire had raged were a lot of black sticks in white snow and long grey shadows. On the other side, the south facing slope, the snow had mostly melted off exposing places where spot fires had burned and the ground was ash and thick and dull and scratched into by the melting snow. Sometimes a footprint of no more than a single tree. Other times the size of a Walmart parking lot.
I look at the pictures now and want to cry but can’t. I feel I should because I know it is sad and a tremendous loss. But I am over it or distant enough or maybe still in denial. I know I should be concerned still because of the fragile soil, destroyed wildlife terrain, and inevitable years of a blank stare that these hills will remain where we are all so excited to see a new blade of grass and a spouting willow emerge but will never see a spruce forest again in our lifetime.
But there is finality there. An open slate. Ready for rebirth. And in that starkness, there is great hope.
As we drove home, back up the mountain and found ourselves passing by the last of the burn and then into the beetle killed hillsides, then is when the sadness hit. I stared out the smeared window as the trees moved by in blur of paling green and fading brown. These hills are still dying, slow and steady, in their silent way. I was tired. Too tired to shed tears.
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Among the crying trees.
Today I walk the trail to Sweetgrass Meadow. The tallest of trees still standing though not a needle remains on their dried branches.
Almost fifty out after lunch and the warmer air gets the sap running.
A new batch of dying trees emerging. A new generation of expiring trees. The next wave of the slow tsunami comes to conquer.
Trees with green needles. Like watching them take their last breath, an extended exhale that will last all spring until the needles fade and fall and so silently they weep, without drama and attention, flames and fanfare, plumes or headline news. No one hears, no one listens.
I stare at a long drip line of sap sparkling in the afternoon sun and let my eyes lose focus in the light and for a moment it is almost beautiful. Watching the life blood leave the tree.
I wrap my arms around one tree and press my nose against the slipping bark and dried sap and breathe deeply and smell very little. How can I describe this odor? It is dry. It no longer smells alive. Yes, you can smell death. With my trees, it smells like nothing at all.
Now I can cry, we shed our tears together, and to them I say farewell.
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Into the burn.
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Yesterday we went into the burn.
Down Box Canyon, along and on top of the Rio Grande, from the River Hill Camp Ground all the way through the Box to the road on the lower side of mountain where the hills are speckled by vacant subdivisions and within sight of a paved road, though we saw no signs of so-called civilized life stirring. That’s not what we were searching for. Though I sincerely thank our dear friends and summer neighbors for helping make this possible by bringing our truck down the mountain so we could get back up. What a welcome site that was to see rattling down the road towards us when we made it through.
Eight hours, about as many miles and it seemed like we each hauled that many pounds of food just to keep us going. My husband, my son, my dog and me.
Today I’ll share only my photos, not my words. I hope the images speak for themselves, each to all in a different way, but words of truth. These images are completely untouched, only reduced in size to share with you.
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In search of a living blue.
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Allow me share this with you first, a minute of Book Business since that’s what seems to be consuming the majority of my time right now. And then come with me, back to the mountain…
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The Color of the Wild is almost a week old. I still haven’t seen a hard copy. I understand it’s beautiful, and have the publisher, Sammie and her team at Norlights Press, to thank for that.
Again, sincere thanks for all the reviewers. Please keep them coming. They also mean so much to me.
Starting today, GoodReads is having a Giveaway for The Color of the Wild. For those active on GoodReads, you know it’s a great chance to get a free copy. The promotion lasts today through the 23rd. If you’re a member of GoodReads, give it a try, even if you already have a copy. You could always share one copy if you win another. If you’re not a member, and you love books, it’s a pretty neat sight – I’m new to it, just learning, and definitely enjoying.
A special note to Bookstores, Book Clubs and Libraries. Thanks to those who have expressed interest and inquired. For all of you, and any others interested in carrying The Color of the Wild, please contact Sammie, the publisher, directly at publisher@norlightspress.com ; or give her a call at 1-812-675-8054 .
Everything you read tells you the Amazon numbers are the Big Ones. But the numbers only matter so much to me. What I’d like to see is people reading what I wrote to share, and old fashioned as I may be, I still think a lot of those readers are finding their books at the local library and corner bookstore. As it’s been three months since I left the mountain, I confess, I’m grateful for Amazon.
So, please keep the book in mind when browsing your local shelves, and ask for it if you don’t see it. If y’all hadn’t noticed, I’m not a big name yet. (Gin Who?) So they might not know about it otherwise.
Now, let’s put the Book Business aside and get back to the mountain…
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Muddy horses for the first time in months. It’s early for mud season.
Big brown circles of fresh, wet dirt beneath the trees. Odors I have not savored in months. Earth. Rich and raw.
The air is alive with song stronger than the coming of the spring winds. Redwing blackbirds, chickadees, juncos, grosbeaks. The Woodpeckers this winter here have been as plentiful as flies on a bloated carcass Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s an exaggeration .
Lovely birds, but I know what their presence means.
Where there are woodpeckers there are bugs. The more woodpeckers, the more bugs. This winter has been good for both. Not so good for the trees. You can see it coming. Or rather, now you know it’s here. Hidden beneath the bark.
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The thermometer reads 47 F (over 8 C) and I don’t know what to wear. It’s warm. It’s snowing.
I strap on snowshoes and hope the snow is too warm to stick.
A walk in the woods. Or rather, a snowshoe. The temperatures are unprecedentedly high and have been all winter up here but for the most part, our world remains white. The blanket it getting thin. The only patches of dirt are on the south side of the cabin and exposed steep slopes. The only dirt I step on still is three, maybe four steps with my snowshoes grating on rock and mud.
Thunder. I’m sure I heard it. A quarter mile later, I hear it again. Ten thousand feet elevation, mid February, it’s almost fifty and still it snows.
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In search of a living blue.
I’m on this photo safari looking for a live Blue Spruce for the cover of the next book. I’m inspired. A wild woman on a crazy mission.
At first glance, you’d think there they’re all over the place. A whole bunch of trees with blue green needles. Right. Now take a closer look. You don’t see these things from the airplanes flying over assessing damage nor from your truck window rolled up to the cold.
Yellowing of the needles on the lower branches.
Slipping bark.
New growth of mistletoe.
Pin holes and dripping sap.
Needles on the snow.
And a pile of chipped bark around the base of the big ones.
You get good at it. Seeing through the last of the green to the tell-tale signs behind. You get used to the yellowing color, like a child sick with fever. And the slipping bark. As if the very core of the tree has given all it could to rid itself of the beetle and pushed its own life out in the process. The bark looks loose. I don’t know how to describe it. Like a snake skin preparing to slough off.
You get used to seeing the signs and learn to find them fast.
I try to find a live spruce tree. I’m not so sure I see one.
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I hope you’re still with me. I wanted to share this with you.
Calm now, in the soothing comfort of remaining snow and silence. The time of solitude remains with us, allowing us healing, the mountain and me. I rest, she recovers, my pain and fear are comforted. Life goes on. We adapt, adjust. Find the beauty in the beetle kill, in the burn.
I want to walk in the burn.
I have not left the mountain since sometime in the middle of November. I still do not care to leave her, but want to go down to her darker places, below the Dam, in the still long blue shadows and grainy snow that has not and will not set up, and post hole through and be out there, in there, with her.
I think I can handle it now.
The burned face of my beloved.
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Just another day.
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Logging continues. Now it’s the three of us and the dog. Sure he helps. Supervising. He lies in the deep snow of the river bed, head up, alert, and every time you look over at him, he’s looking over at you. When that gets old, he’s off barking something we never see. It must be working, all that howling, because nothing got us yet.
It’s forty degrees and snowing and we’re standing on top of the Rio Grande roasting hot dogs on long willow branches over the burning pile of slash. You can hear the river louder now, a little angry and thus a little frightening. A few places you see the black void broken through the solid white. The great unknown. You wonder how deep it is, how thick the ice upon which you stand.
More snow. Heavy, wet snow. Coming in waves. Too warm even to stick to my snowshoes.
And in the middle of it all, the red-wing blackbird arrives. A week early. Always seems like they choose stormy weather to herald their arrival, and I feel justified in leaving out seeds each morning on the picnic table outside our kitchen window so, selfishly, I can see them. There is comfort in attracting what little life remains on the mountain around us.
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If the silent land
Would learn to scream
Then would we finally
Listen?
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Balancing.
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I never wanted the same old thing. I was not ready for this winter to turn out like all the others. It did not.
After a dozen years and ten winters here, there are expectations. I fear such thing. Comfort can allow complacency. I would rather remain stirring in the winds.
The enticement and exhilaration of change.
It can be additive. We crave the new, that which is just out of reach, as does the horse pressing on the barbed wire to get hold of the grass on the other side.
Or so I thought. Yet I have comfort in this familiar view, the same steaming coffee cup in my hands, the same warm body to wrap my legs around at night, the sound of my dog’s heavy sigh close by as he rolls over contentedly in the early morning when I rouse. The sound of my son’s steady breathing as he sleeps in the other room with the open door and I tip toe about the cabin building the fire, getting the percolator on the stove, sitting down to write with a cat curled on either side of me.
I don’t want to cling to the familiar, but desire a balance between that which I can hold onto, with that which will not stop from shifting through my fingers.
Without this balance, would we not be floating with our feet firmly planted in the clouds, or in fear of lifting off from the ground and trying to fly?
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History in the making, we are all seeing it in our changing world. It is frightening but fascinating. I don’t want to miss it. I don’t know if there is a thing I can do but help open a few eyes and remind people of the simple beauty of the wilds. These dying woods are more than just a resource. They are a part of our collective soul.
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A little bit about the book…
Getting ready for the big day. Ups and downs. Talk about expectations!
Maybe it won’t be anything special. But of course it will, because every day is, no matter what they say, and that one is Valentine’s Day.
I was just a writer. I had time to write. Once you’re published, you become an author, and suddenly, your time is taken up marketing and you don’t have near the time you used to have to write. What’s with that?
When all I want to do is share my words, what I see, a story. I don’t want to be selling you something. Like myself. I ask you this, how do we share our words without selling out? Make the most without making a mess?
That said, I’m grateful for so many who have shared so much helpful information on just how we to go about promoting our books – if not to sell ourselves, than back to the main focus – sharing our words. This site, Joanna Penn’s The Creative Penn, tops my list at the moment. Worth checking out if you’re looking for some good marketing suggestions and how-tos.
Finally, a quick question/request. Are any of you active members of Goodreads? I’ve just signed up and am trying to learn the ropes. I’m also looking to see if any of you might willing and able to read and post a review on Goodreads to get the conversation going there. Please let me know if you can help out or have some ideas and suggestions.
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Field of snow.
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Haven’t paid much mind to a sports game in about twenty years. I think after last night, it may be another twenty before I do so again. Here in Colorado, I thought it would be the thing to do. I’m sticking with snowshoes and horses. Me, my dog, the wind and wilds. No teams, no scores, no bets and big bummers.
I just don’t get it. We call it a sport but sit on the sofa to watch. And at the end, one team wins, one team loses. Like politics and religion. I’ll stay away from them all.
I send a text message to the boys in Denver. Tell them they’re better off watching the Weather Channel. Plenty of good news there. Another storm on the way. And another. And another. That’s how we like it.
Why I live here. Reason #873. A random number. As long as it is high, for the reasons are many.
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Seventeen below yesterday morning. Thirty-seven above by the afternoon. Not a cloud in the blue bird blue sky. This morning, another storm rolls in, enwraps. Such comfort in this covering.
Winter is ours. The sour summer squalls, and I don’t mean the weather, we’ll outlast, out live and best of all, outshine.
I’m in no rush for it to warm up, melt out. Open ground and exposed earth are a long ways away. The grass I grow in the front window for the dog and cats gets mowed weekly with hand scissors and is presented to the horses as a treat. We’ll be just fine.
For now, cover them with ice, silence them with snow, as we breathe alone in this still white vast peace.
This is my world.
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Simplicity in a shiver. Standing out there with your head tipped back as the snow falls on your lashes and lips and melts on your cheeks and the steam of your breath stings your nose and the dog has the right idea as he flops down and rolls.
How easy it is to forget when summer is so fleeting, the fires the drought the flood. These changing times and changing guard. Now the mountain regains control. I can’t help but laugh as I watch them flutter away crumpled and useless as last years leaves.
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And us? We are left with the open page, pure white and fresh and free as the field of snow before me.
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A Request for Reviews!
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Looking for a few good reviewers!
If you want a sneak peak at The Color of the Wild, if you have time to seriously sit down and read over the next two weeks, and if you are willing and able to post a review on the sale’s page for the book on “Opening Day” or shortly thereafter (the launch date is scheduled for the 14th of February)… please e-mail me (gingetz@gmail.com). I’m looking for a few (actually, twenty-five of you) good readers.
This is a great opportunity for me to get some feedback (important stuff for my first book, and you, dear reader, are the perfect person to help!). And you get a free download of the book before it is available to the public.
If you are interested and would consider this, please e-mail me. I’d really appreciate your help – and hope you’ll enjoy. Think about it. Drop me a note if you have questions. I’ll be here.
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And so, yes, you read that right. The launch date is set. The 14th of February. Valentine’s Day! Isn’t that a nice choice! (Thank you Sammie, Dee & Nadene…)
Only two more weeks, and something I’ve been working on for years is really, finally happening. Wow.
My first book, The Color of the Wild will be released.
Like a wild beast let out of cage? At least, that’s what I’m kind of hoping. But maybe nothing happens on that day except you can buy the book on Amazon (please do!) and I can say I’m a published author. Nothing more? Well, the beer we bottled today will be ready to taste, and I’ll be busy baking heart shaped goodies for my sweetie. Yes, I am a sap.
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But the book… for me, it’s incredibly wonderful and exciting, the beginning of something new, the reward of so many years working towards this, a future unfolding in the pages of one little book…
So, if this is all so great and wonderful, why the heck am I so scared?
Seriously. I’m worked up, nervous, on edge. I’m running around trying to be Wonder Woman and get everything done, ready, in place, set up, perfectly. Do all I can, learn all I can thanks to the help of other author’s blogs and web sites and forums. And at the end of the day I feel I’m spitting in the wind.
Me? A published author? What if my efforts are futile and no one reads it? What if it’s a bomb? What if the reviews (if I’m even lucky enough to get them) are all terrible? What if my writing really stinks? It’s like a day of reckoning, I guess.
Any other authors out there willing and able to share a few first-time-publishing-blues stories? Please share. I’d love to hear. I sure could use a little encouragement right about now.
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Oh, and besides working on the marketing, which I knew nothing about before Friday, and now I’m suddenly a self-professed pro, we’ve got a new piece of heavy equipment into the ranch, we’re finishing up logging before the river opens in this heat, getting the house plans designed, bottling that new batch of beer… and my son is on his way home. Yes, here’s the most special news of all: Forrest is done with his job at the South Pole for this season, and is coming home!
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Gin Getz 